"The point I'm trying to make, Jameson, is this." Benchley leaned toward his companion, elbows on knees. "It is simply not possible for a machine to completely mimic human intelligence. There are too many things we don't understand about the human brain, about intelligence, about thought. It can't be done!"

Barclay Jameson smiled at his friend across his ancient wooden desk. "You don't understand how far we've come, Morgan. There have been incredible discoveries in molecular and neuro biology. We now understand completely the chemical processes pertaining to the thought process..."

"Aha!" Morgan Benchley interrupted. "You're talking about chemical and electrical exchanges at a synaptic level, but that's not enough; there's more to it than that! What about the 'ghost in the machine,' that unquantifiable 'something' that differentiates man from the animals"?

"I take a mechanistic approach to the problem: Philosophy and superstition are for the weak-minded," Jameson said. "There is no role for a 'spirit' or 'soul'. It is simply a matter of physics and chemistry. Once we understand the mechanism, it's simply a matter of duplication!"

Benchley shook his graying head. "You're not telling me you honestly buy in to the 'meat machine' concept are you?"

"That's perhaps a bit more vulgar than I would put it, but, yes, I accept the basic premise that man is nothing more or less than a 'meat machine'. Everything that makes a man a man can be duplicated by a machine." Jameson said in that smug matter-of-fact way of his that he knew so irritated his friend.

"You disappoint me, Barc," Benchley said. "I thought you more intelligent than that."

"But don't you see?" Jameson stood from behind the desk and began pacing, "That's what this is all about. Intelligence! If a machine can display attributes normally ascribed to intelligence, is it unhuman simply because it is a machine? In our quest for truth, our definitions must remain flexible."

"Not one computer has ever been shown to mimic human intelligence except in the most rudimentary fashion," Barclay said. "It's a pipe dream."

Jameson came around the desk and stood before his friend. "You and I go way back, Morgan, and it's not that I don't enjoy our talks, but I think it's time to shut you up."

"That sounds like a challenge, old friend," Benchley smiled.

"It most certainly is a challenge," Jameson said. "Do you know who Alan Turing was?"

"No," Benchley admitted. "Should I?"

Jameson returned to his chair, leaning back at a precarious angle, his feet up on the desk, challenging gravity to a duel of wills. "I thought it was too much to ask. Almost no one remembers him now, poor man. Spent his few short years illuminating mankind with his brilliance, only to be forgotten almost completely."

Jameson shook his head and leaned further back in his chair, causing Benchley great concern for his friend's safety.

"Turing was fascinated by the possibility of building machines that could mimic the human thought process," Jameson said. "He proposed a simple test to determine whether a machine can be said to think like a human. I have prepared such a test, Morgan," Jameson said, returning his chair to its upright, more stable position, "using a machine we have developed here at the lab. I would like you're help."

"What would I do?" Benchley asked.

"You'll have two terminals; one hooked to my computer, the other to a human volunteer. You can type anything you want. All you have to do is tell me which one is the machine. What do you say?"

Morgan Benchley thought it over quickly. "My dear friend, I would be honored. But I'll warn you, I won't let our friendship color the test results in any way."

"Of course not," Jameson laughed.

The two shook, smiling.

On the day of the test, Morgan Benchley was shown into a small room in the basement of the lab. Jameson was waiting for him.

"Morgan! Good to see you!" he said, pumping his friend's hand. "Are you ready for our little experiment?"

"Of course." Benchley smiled. "Are you prepared to be disappointed?"

Jameson laughed. "Disappointed how? As a scientist, the truth can never disappoint me, and that's what we're after, the truth."

"So when I expose your machine you won't be upset?" Benchley asked.

Jameson smiled wryly. "Well, maybe a little," he admitted. "But not as much as you will be when my computer fools you, I'll wager."

Benchley clapped his friend's shoulders. "I won't be disappointed, my friend," he smiled. "Because I'm going to nail your little machine to the wall within the first five minutes!"

Jameson led Benchley to a small table and chair, the only furniture in the room, where two small terminals with attached keyboards sat. Cables led from the machines across the floor to disappear behind a curtain at the opposite end of the room.

"Have a seat, my friend," Jameson said.

"These terminals shall serve as your only interface with the participants of this experiment," he explained. "You shall address them as Terminal One and Terminal Two. You can ask any questions you want but don't try to be cute by posing difficult mathematical questions. Remember, the computer is allowed to lie, so it will play dumb. Besides," he laughed, "the human volunteer is one of my students and may be able to answer the question."

"Anything else?" Benchley asked.

"The time limit for this little experiment is twenty minutes. Although it is true computers never suffer fatigue, my student is only human and may slip up if he grows bored or tired. So," he said, heading for the door, "I will leave the three of you alone to get acquainted. See you in twenty minutes."

Benchley turned in his seat to face his friend. "You are not staying to act as witness?"

Jameson laughed. "What need is there for a witness? You can't possibly cheat, you don't have it in you. Besides," he pointed to a small device over his shoulder, high up in the corner of the little room, "this is all being recorded for posterity. This is an historic moment, you see."

He waved his friend farewell and gently closed the door behind him.

Benchley smiled and waved self-consciously at the camera, then turned his attention to the machines. He stared at the blank tubes and immediately felt foolish and embarrassed. How could he have agreed to such nonsense?

He placed thick fingers on the keyboard of Terminal One and typed, "Hello? My name is Morgan Benchley. Who are you?"

Green letters phosphoresced into life. "I AM MICHAEL WILKINS"

Now, on Terminal Two, he repeated his message.

"I AM NORRIS BARNES," it replied.

Neither terminal had displayed its message any quicker than the other -- no clue there.

"I've just come from my lunch," Benchley typed on Terminal Two. "Have you eaten?"

"I NORMALLY DON'T EAT 'TILL TWO OR SO. LOTS TO DO, YOU KNOW. WORK WORK WORK, STUDY STUDY STUDY."

That certainly sounded like an undergraduate. He repeated the message for Terminal One.

"I HAD AN EARLY LUNCH TODAY SINCE I NEW YOU WERE COMING."

Benchley noticed the typographical error but dismissed it: certainly a clever programmer would add a routine to mimic a human's imperfect typing abilities.

To Terminal One: "Do you like sports?"

"OH, YES, SIR. I ENJOY PALYING MOST SPORTS, ESPECIALLY ANYTHING CO-ED ;)"

That certainly sounded human, there was another typo and the smiley face was cute -- perhaps just a little too cute.

Terminal Two, when posed the same question, responded: "NO SIR. I SPEND ALL MY ENERGIES AT MY STUDIES. NO TIME FOR SUCH FOOLISHNESS."

Admirable, quite admirable. But maybe a bit too good to be true.

To Terminal One: "I can get you tickets to the playoffs next week. I have a friend who can't use his. Would you be interested?"

"YES SIR! THAT WOULD BE WONDERFUL!"

A moment's pause, then, "OH. I'M SORRY, SIR. I FORGOT NEXT WEEK IS FINALS. I'M AFRAID I'LL HAVE TO PASS."

Benchley smiled. Next week was indeed finals. This was either a college student or one clever programming trick.

On Terminal Two he typed, "Next week are finals. How are your studies progressing? Are you ready?"

"I'M DOING QUITE WELL, SIR. THANK YOU FOR ASKING."

That was noncommittal and unrevealing.

This was more difficult than he'd thought possible. Benchley knew he would need to pull off something clever if he were to outwit the machine and emerge with his pride intact.

When the twenty minutes were up, Jameson reentered the little room to find a smiling Morgan Benchley leaning back in his chair.

"And?" Jameson asked. "Have you reached a conclusion?"

"Indeed I have!" Benchley said. "Your computer is behind Terminal Number Two!"

Jameson's face froze. Stunned, he remained silent as he walked to the curtain and pulled the cord. As the fabric parted there was revealed a small booth with a window. Behind the window sat a rather thin but friendly looking young man seated before a terminal. The young man waved to Benchley.

In a small alcove to the right of the student's booth was a jet black box about three meters on a side, totally featureless and devoid of any markings. From this box ran a cable that terminated in the back of Terminal Two. A similar cable ran from the young man's booth to Terminal One.

Jameson stared at his friend. "I don't understand," he whispered. "I was so certain. How could you know?"

Benchley approached his friend. He was almost apologetic in his tone of voice. "It was simple," he said. "I lied."

Jameson was taken aback. "You lied?"

"Precisely. You said the computer was allowed to lie so I naturally assumed the same applied for me."

"But how could a lie..." Jameson leaned against the wall, his hand to his forehead.

"It was a whopper, mind you," Benchley said with a mischievous grin.

"But what did you say?"

"I simply recounted the sad story of my late wife's passing," Benchley grinned.

"But," Jameson stammered, "Helen is alive!"

"And quite well, thank you," Benchley said. "But neither the computer nor your student know of my wife or her health status. I fabricated a heart wrenching story of watching my wife suffer and die slowly and horribly of cancer. I told them both how I stood there, holding her hand at her bedside as she breathed her last. I told them how I stood there and cried for hours, holding my dead wife's hand."

"But I don't understand," Jameson said hoarsely. "How did that help you?"

"Terminal One responded to my story by saying he was sorry. So did Terminal Two."

"I don't understand. They both responded in the same way." Jameson said.

"But that was just the set up, my friend," Benchley said. "I then told them both that I was actually glad she died, that I was happy she was gone."

Jameson looked at his friend, his eyes widening. "And how did they respond?" he asked.

"Terminal One remained silent for a long moment, then typed, 'I understand.' That's all -- just 'I understand.'"

"And Terminal Two? How did Terminal Two respond?"

Benchley smiled sympathetically, "It didn't," he said. "Look at the display," he motioned over his shoulder. "It has yet to respond. I knew Terminal Two was the computer: It simply could not understand how a person could be happy at the loss of a loved one. Your student understood that sometimes it is best to lose someone than to see them suffer."

Benchley touched his friend's arm. "That's one thing you couldn't teach your machine to mimic, Barclay," he said softly. "Compassion, heart-felt, genuine compassion."

Benchley turned his attention to the gleaming black cube. "It's a wonderful achievement, old friend," he nodded, "and if it's worth anything to you, it really had me going there for a while."

He waved again to the young man in the booth. "Please explain to your student about my deception and give him my apologies."

And with that said he left his friend to his thoughts.